


Desolate yet all undaunted

by buttpatrol



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Edwardian Period, F/M, Grisly crime scenes and arcane symbols, Maybe a series later?, Murder Mystery, Not Beta Read, POV Outsider, Spooky Crimes, attempts at period appropriate dialogue, they fight crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:22:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttpatrol/pseuds/buttpatrol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, it's a bit more of a complicated story than that. Involving several charlatans, self-professed mediums, and a possibly bewitched chamber quartet,” She paused, turning a bit pink, “I, uh, may have sent him eleven telegrams in one week requesting his acquaintance."</p><p>______</p><p>A young constable watching over what appears to be a peculiar murder, meets Dr. Strand and Miss Reagan, investigators of mysterious and uncanny crimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desolate yet all undaunted

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for this fandom, and it is quite a bit different from how I usually write! I hope you enjoy!

In was a dark and stormy night. But that was often the way of things, the young constable reflected. Especially in London where November seemed to bring an endless string of dark clouds, and streams of rain beating the cobblestones.

It was a hard beat for a fellow trying to earn his stripes on a good day, without the mysterious murders.

He shuffled nervously at his post by the door. Queer thing, it was. The shopkeeper was found dead in a pool of his own blood, in a locked room in his own bookstore. The young lady who attended the counter of the shop had suffered a great fright when she came into do inventory that evening and found him there. Then the poor lass nearly went into dead faint when fetching a light revealed mysterious and sinister symbols painted on the ceiling and floor symbols.

Bad business, he thought. All above his pay scale. Luckily for him, some experts were being called in.

No sooner had the thought entered his mind when the door blew open, and gave him and the shop girl, still shivering in the corner, an awful start. Two figures stood in the doorway. The first was a friendly looking man in a smart pin-striped suit, the second was a pretty young lady in a practical looking dark green travelling dress. 

“Ah!” the constable said, hopping to attention, “You must be Dr. Strand and his lovely assistant? Are we still waiting on Mr. Reagan?”

The lady shot him a tired but amused look. “I am _Miss_ Reagan, and I am actually a journalist for the North-West Harold. We are still waiting on Dr. Strand.”

“And I am _her_ assistant. Nic Silver.” The man said, closing his umbrella with a snap. “I _am_ pretty lovely though." 

“I say! _You_ are the girl’s assistant?” the constable repeated nervously. 

“Well, I do a lot of the leg work. And the sorting through dusty old tomes and records. And the reviewing of laws to figure out if we have done something illegal or un-“

“Yes, Nic, and I find you invaluable,” Miss Reagan interrupted with a wry smile. She produced a thick notebook from some unseen pocket and began writing in quick illegible shorthand. “So the room was locked?”

“Uh, Yes Ma’am. From the inside it looks like. Miss Turpin had to use her own key to unlock it.”

“Miss Turpin was the girl who found the body?” more quick scratches of her pencil.

“Yes. That is her over there Si- I mean Ma’am,” he gestured towards the small, pale form of the girl.

“Thank you,” she nodded, “Now where is the body?”

 “Just this way,” he pointed towards the low shelves.

“I will remain over here,” her companion Mr. Silver interjected. “I intend to have supper out with a dear friend of mine, and I’d rather not be put off my appetite.”

 

 Miss Reagan herself turned a bit green at the sight of the body, which lay face down surrounded by a large pool of dark frothy blood, but remained composed.  The victim had been a rather bilious man in his forties and dressed in a dark tweed. Above him, swirling symbols and numbers were cut into the wood like a gash, dripping blank ink like blood. It made the constable uncomfortable to look at.

 “And there is no open windows? An attic or a cellar?” Miss Reagan’s clear voice, pierced through his troubled thoughts like a bell.

 “No, Miss. There was no way into this room. He was found locked in here surrounded by that peculiar writing like a demon creature came for his soul and kill’t him where he stood.”

 “It would certainly seem that way, wouldn't it?” Miss Reagan agreed.

 The constable felt his hair stand on end, like someone had stepped on his grave, “You really think so?”

 She sighed, “No, it’s likely a great deal simpler and uglier than that. I am sure Dr. Strand would be sure to tell us how foolish that idea that is once he arrives."

“Beg your pardon miss,” the young man cleared his throat, “But I have been reading about Dr, Strand in the paper-”

“That would be _my_ paper actually. We have been running a series of stories on him. It is how I came to be part of these kind of morbid scenes,” she said, pride and apprehension colouring her voice equally.

“It's true then, innit? ‘Bout his wife, and the curious affair?”

Her countenance paled slightly, and she looked nervously at the corners of the room, as if expecting to see something unexpected there. “I don’t know. But I want to find the truth. I just don’t know for sure what the truth is.”

“So that is how you came to be involved with him?” He said, prying further.

“Well, it's a bit more of a complicated story than that. Involving several charlatans, self-professed mediums, and a possibly bewitched chamber quartet,” She paused, turning a bit pink, “I, uh, may have sent him eleven telegrams in one week requesting his acquaintance.”

The door opened again with a great calamity, startling everyone but Miss Reagan, who muttered “speak of the devil, and he doth appear” and coyly hid a smile in her hand.

The man at the door cut an imposing figure. He was dressed head-to-toe in black and by god, was that a cape? He was tall, and a handsome well-bred looking sort, with tidy hair and bright eyes and firmly set mouth. He looked like like Poe’s own Raven, blown in by a storm.

“Strand.” Mr. Silver said dryly, having recovered from the shock, he now seemed unimpressed by his compatriot's dramatic arrival.  

Dr. Strand nodded at Mr. Silver but pushed on towards the body. “Miss Reagan,” He greeted her softly.

“Hello, Dr. Strand.” She smiled at him, “It’s the symbols again.”

“I see that,” he agreed.

“The victim died locked in this room, from the blood it looks violent.” She said. Her pencil was flying down the lines of her notebook quicker now, as if she couldn’t write fast enough.

“Perhaps,” Strand murmured, the both bent over the body, like conspiring schoolchildren. “He is lying face down, that usually suggest a man died on his feet, but I don’t see any stab or bullet wounds.”

“It looks like most of the blood is, ah, coming from the victim's face,” Miss Reagan said grimly. “Perhaps he fell forward and dashed his face upon the floor.”

“Very good, that would seem likely. Now what would kill a man where he stands?”

Miss Reagan thought for a few seconds, “Poison?”

“Very likely I would think.” He agreed.

She moved for the dead man’s pockets.

“Alex, don’t--” Strand started, but it was too late. She had plucked a small bottle from the man’s pocket and was now holding it up to the light.

“Laudanum!” she pronounced excitedly.

“So, a suicide then?” Mr. Silver said from across the store.

“He perhaps dosed himself, and then collapsed.” Miss Reagan agreed. She turned to Dr. Strand. “But then what about the symbols?”

“I am sure there is a scientifically explanation,” the older man shrugged irritably, craning his neck to look up at them, “He could have drawn them himself, in a drug induced stupor.”

Miss Reagan flushed, obviously nettled, “Strand, the ceiling is ten feet tall, and there is no stool, or stepladder on which he could have reached it!”

The young policeman shifted in spot. He didn’t care for standing by the body so long. Poison or not it felt _off._ He was going to see the bloody stain seeping into the floorboards in his nightmares, no doubt about it.

Strand scowled, “He could have had an accomplice, have you interviewed the girl that found the body?”

With that everybody turned towards the corner where the shop girl had been cowering to find her completely gone.

“She can’t have gone far,” Miss Regan exclaimed, “Her name was Turpin, I think! I can get the full name and address of the girl from the policeman, and we can track her down.”

“Ah, my own notebook was in the other room,” the constable piped up, happy that someone remembered he was still in the room. “I will go get it.”

“I have to meet Amalia,” Mr. Silver added, “but I will search the archive at the paper for any history on this address and we can meet and confer tomorrow morning.” 

The constable ducked back into the side room where he had took the witness's details earlier. The poor thing seemed quite distraught by the death of her employer, and he thought that being away from the grisly scene for a few minutes would do her a world of good.

Now however, it seemed he might have been deceived by the minx, as it appeared the shop girl had grabbed his notepad when she had snuck out of the room.

The lad swallowed, humiliation rising in his chest. These people were an odd lot, but he didn’t look forward to disappointing them. The woman, Miss Reagan was uncommonly familiar with her companions, and rather forward for such a bright, well dressed thing but they all seemed very clever. They had a look in their eyes like there were seeing this body as an important piece of a puzzle that was much bigger than him.

When he entered back into the store Mr. Silver was gone, and Miss Reagan and Dr. Strand were standing together, closer than was really appropriate between a man and an unmarried lady. His head was on her shoulder, and he looked tired and maybe a little sad. Her hand was slid into his own, and she leaned on him. Her spine curved into a question mark against his side.  

The constable, sensing he was intruding upon something scandalous, retreated back into the other room. He would let them have another few minutes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from Poe's The Raven, which our unnamed narrator also references. The details of the investigation are borrowed from "Detective", a true crime podcast. If I could have found a way to shoehorn supporting Alex's paper by going to "FINE PERVAYORS OF STAMPS AND TELEGRAMS, FOR ALL YOUR TINTYPE SHIPPING NEEDS" I would have,


End file.
